


Slowly

by casualcastle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Martin POV, Microfic, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcastle/pseuds/casualcastle
Summary: A micro fic about reflection and recovery
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Slowly

The soft light of early morning seeps in through the thin curtains. It coats the furniture in a warm, thin film, reflecting off of the metallic handle of Martin’s mug. He sighs, blowing on his tea and taking a cautionary sip. 

He’s starting to get used to this now, the routine. Jon, much to Martin’s surprise, is not an early riser. He frequently sleeps in until 10:30 or 11 while Martin’s internal clock won’t keep him asleep past 8. It doesn’t bother him, though. He enjoys the quiet of the cabin in the morning, sometimes going for walks around the Scottish countryside or even just looking out the back window at the wide expanse of rolling green hills.

In some ways it reminds him of growing up, of the vastness of the ocean. The cold mist would rise up from the water and coat his limbs, his face. He would stand just at the edge of the shoreline where the waves could barely graze the tops of his feet, letting them slowly sink into the wet sand. He’d close his eyes and breathe deep, allowing the evaporated saltwater to coat his lungs too. It made him feel like part of something bigger than himself, bigger than the things he struggled to control.

Someone needed him then too, and it was that sense of responsibility to someone else that kept him present. It’s different now of course, because he is also wanted. That’s a new feeling to Martin: having someone who wants to take care of him the way he’s taken care of others his whole life. He isn’t quite used to it yet, but he’s learning.

It’s a luxury, he thinks, to enjoy solitude. Being truly alone, or just having the illusion of being alone, it’s easier to trick yourself into thinking that the silence is all you need. Martin knows it very well, acquainted in a way that you might be with an old sweater that doesn’t quite fit, too tight in some places and scratchy in others, but it’s convenient and it’s always there, always waiting.

It’s cold though. It’s forgettable, it slips away under your fingertips, and it carries that aching, bone deep cold.

Martin sets his empty mug in the sink and begins walking back to the bedroom. He knows now the warmth of a waiting body, something that tethers him to the ground and keeps him from wading further into that quiet dark.

Jon sleeps soundly, hair draped across his pillow and mouth open slightly. He snores quietly, more like a sigh than a snort. Martin smiles from the doorway at the sight of him looking so relaxed and almost, almost free from greater powers: the ones that seek to twist his body and mind into the image of terror and grief. He should always look like this, Martin thinks. He would trade anything, any tangible or intangible object or feeling for Jon to never have to hear the sorrow-drowned thoughts of those who he’s never known, whose lives he’s never lived. 

He pushes himself off of the door frame and makes his way over to the bed. Tucking himself back under the sheets he moves to press his chest to Jon’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist. Jon obliges, letting out a soft sound of contentment as he moves his hand up to cover Martins.

Martin relaxes, face buried between Jon’s shoulder blades, and the distant sound of waves whisper against his ears. Behind his eyelids he can see a young boy staring out over the ocean, straining to see the line where the sea meets the sky. It’s all the same cool grey, and had he not known the scale of the Earth and its tendency towards illusion he might have thought it was the wall of a box that he could neither enter nor exit. It might’ve felt oppressive; he might’ve drowned in the idea of it if he’d allowed the doubt a few precious moments to fester and grow in his mind.

But no, he searches for the horizon because he knows it’s there, even buried under the weight of the fog, even if he hasn’t seen it for a while. Martin holds Jon a little tighter.

He knows he’ll find it eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a quiet Saturday morning a couple of months ago and decided to go ahead and post it since I still like how it turned out. Thanks for reading!


End file.
